


les vins que je bois en vain, n'ont pas le gout de la fete

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Canon Era, Class Difference, English Enjolras, French Grantaire, Gardening, M/M, enjolras can't speak french, grantaire is a gardener
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: "the help," he mutters to himself, and his father looks up, "yes," he says sharply, "and you should not distract him anymore. There are plenty of men your age, good-quality men, that you can make friends with."in which Enjolras moves to France, Grantaire works on his estate, and languages aren't the only barrier.





	1. j'ai parfois l'ame prise, dans des filets qui me tormentent

Enjolras paces the gardens of his family’s stately home. They had arrived that afternoon, Enjolras still feeling ill from the sea-crossing. London to Paris had taken almost nineteen hours, and he is exhausted. His father, a diplomat, had been ordered to Paris due to the rising tension between England and France. His mother had reluctantly agreed to go, and Enjolras had been forced to join them. He kicks up the fresh bed of flowers that one of their new servants had planted, noting the way that French soil tumbled from his brown boots in the very same way that English soil had done. He continues, soft mud staining the cuffs of his trousers as his feet tear through the dirt. 

“Monsieur?” A voice behind him timidly inquires, “que faites-vous?”

Enjolras stops in his tracks, turning slowly to face the person speaking to him. It is a boy, slightly shorter than him, with dark, frantic curls, no older than Enjolras himself. “I don’t speak French,” he says, a hint of embarrassment behind his words, “English?”

The boy tilts his head slightly to the left, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Do – you – speak – English?”

Again, the boy looks confused, causing Enjolras to huff out a breath. He points to himself, “Enjolras. Me, Enjolras,” he then points at the boy, “you?”

There is no answer. Enjolras gives up, “I must go. Au revoir.” Had he stayed a few seconds longer, he would have heard a small “au revoir, Ange.”

  


A few days had passed before Enjolras began to feel lonely. He missed his old friends, his old university. He missed understanding conversations, and cursed his parents, both of whom could speak French intermediately, for bombarding him with history, politics, and law, instead of languages that he could _actually use._

After lunch, he decides to take a walk in the garden. He would have gone further, ventured into Paris, but his mother vehemently admonished him when he had asked, declaring it unsafe for such a pretty boy to walk the streets by himself. He rounds the corner at the stables, strolling past the tool shed, and sees him again. The boy from before. He smiles, someone his own age that he could have fun with, at least. 

“Hello,” he says loudly, standing in front of where the boy was planting flowers, “are you almost done?” 

The boy looks up, eyes full of confusion, “Monsieur,” he managed, “je peux vous aider?”  
Enjolras closes his eyes, irritated that he had somehow forgotten the communication barrier. He avoids eye contact and turned away, “it doesn’t matter.” He begins to walk, embarrassed that he could forget something so vital. _He’s in France for God’s sake; how could he be surprised that people would speak French?_

“Monsieur!” 

He stops, but doesn’t turn, “what?” he shouts back. He hears footsteps behind him, and the boy comes into view again. He points at himself, “Grantaire,” he says smiling, “je suis Grantaire.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, “but what’s your first name?”

Grantaire is lost again, so Enjolras takes his hand, pulling his index finger so it’s towards him, “Julien Enjolras,” he points the finger back at Grantaire, expectantly. Grantaire shakes his head, “je suis Grantaire.”

Enjolras bites his lip in order to keep his patience, “yes, yes I know. But what is your first name?”  
When he is met with more silence, he pulls Grantaire through the glass double doors, into the dining room. His father is there, surprised to see them.

“Ah, Julien. Have you made a friend?”

“No,” Enjolras replies curtly, “ask him his name. Please.”

“Comment vous vous appellez?” he asks Grantaire, his lip curling slightly in disgust when he sees the mud that Grantaire had traipsed in.

“Je suis Grantaire,” he repeats, eyes wide in confusion. “Je l’ai dit beaucoup de fois, mais il m’a ignoré.”

“His name is Grantaire,” his father translates, unsure how his son could have misunderstood such a simple phrase, and Enjolras stomps one of his feet in frustration “I know that,” he says through gritted teeth, “but what is his first name?”

“Ah, votre prénom?” 

Before Grantaire could reply, another servant enters the room, “vous êtes prêt pour manger, Monsieur?” she asks Enjolras’ father, sat at the head of the table, “oui, oui. Sit, Julien.”

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire’s hand, which he had forgotten he was holding, and sits down. “Is he staying for dinner?”

His father seemed shocked, “why would he? He is… the help.” Enjolras nods slowly, not quite understanding, “oh.”

They watch Grantaire leave, Enjolras transfixed on the way he flicks mud up the back of his trousers with every step. He supposes that Grantaire didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care.

“The help,” he mutters to himself, and his father looks up, “yes,” he says sharply, “and you should not distract him anymore. There are plenty of men your age, good-quality men, that you can make friends with.”

That night, as Enjolras lies in his feather-down bed, his thoughts drift to Grantaire, and he is able to fall asleep faster than he had since the move.


	2. j'ai parfois l'ame grise

Much to Enjolras’ disdain, his parents were serious about him making new friends.

“But I have friends at home,” he argued once at the dinner table, “they’ll wait until I get back.”

“We aren’t going back,” his father had countered, and that was the end of the discussion.

Enjolras pushed the thought to an empty corner in his mind and locked it away, he would go back one day. Whenever he thought of home, he pictured the rolling green hills, the bustling cities, and his friends. Looking out of the window at his family’s new estate, he sighs. _This isn’t home_ , he thinks to himself, _and it never, ever will be._

 

“We’re throwing a little get-together this evening,” his mother announces at breakfast, “there will be plenty of friends to meet, Julien.”  
Enjolras almost chokes on his croissant, “I thought I was having French lessons with Monsieur Levage this evening?”  
His father reaches for another crepe, “yes, well this will be an opportunity for you to practise your conversation.” This causes Enjolras to gulp, loudly. He had been trying, really he had, to improve his French, but when the only people available to talk are the servants that his father had strictly forbade him from talking to, it was becoming a bit of a struggle.

 

Before his study time, Enjolras takes another walk, repeating irregular verb conjugations under his breath. The fresh air helps him to think, and the sunshine calms his nerves somewhat. He pauses by an apple tree, “j’irai, tu iras, il…” he leans back against the rough bark, “il…,”

“Il ira,” a voice offers from his left, “nous irons, vous irez, ils iront.”

Enjolras’ head lifts slowly, a smile forming on his lips, “merci, Grantaire.”

“De rien.” Grantaire laughs, “votre père m’avez dit qu’il y aura une fête ce soir.”

Enjolras hesitates before agreeing. Grantaire grins at him, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. “Um, vous êtes à la fête ce soir?” Enjolras asks in broken French. Grantaire’s eyes sparkle as he hears the effort he has made, “oui, je serai là. Et vous?”  
Enjolras nods, turning his attention downwards, looking at the spade Grantaire has in his hands, “umm, q-que vous faites avec ça?” Grantaire looks down, then back up at Enjolras, before pretending to dig. “Oh,” says Enjolras, nodding wisely as though he had done manual labour before. “Très ennuyeux,” Grantaire replies with a smile, “voudriez-vous l’essayer?”

Without fully understanding what he said, Enjolras nods again, and is surprised when Grantaire takes him by the hand, pulling him over to the closest flower beds. He tries desperately not to think about how warm Grantaire’s fingers are when pressed against his own.

“Voilà,” Grantaire says triumphantly, handing the spade to Enjolras, “le roi des jardins.”  
Enjolras giggles uneasily, realising that his trousers were going to be ruined, “um, Grantaire-”

“Julien!”

Both heads shoot up, Enjolras dropping the spade on the soft ground. His father’s voice was unmistakable, and it was angry. “I have… um, il faut que… I really must go. I’m sorry,” he mumbles quickly to Grantaire, whose eyes flick between Enjolras and his father. Enjolras doesn’t wait for a response, instead, he turns and rapidly makes his way across the lawn, trying with great difficulty not to look up.

 

“Julien,” his father repeats when they’re inside, “what have I told you about that boy?”

“He was just showin-”

“Yes, I could see perfectly well what he was doing. Eyeing you up like a piece of meat. I won’t stand for it, Julien. I raised you as my son, and that is how you shall behave.”  
“But-” Enjolras attempts, but is interrupted before he can finish, “no. There are no buts. That boy, that person, is not your friend. He is a member of staff, not a plaything. I have asked you to stop, and if you don’t…”  
“If I don’t, what?” Enjolras retorts, a sudden flicker of a flame in his eyes, “you want me to make friends, and I’m making them. What’s wrong with that?”  
His father’s face turns scarlet, “the problem is that that boy is scum,” he spits, “you are not rubbing shoulders with the lower classes, Julien. You are better than that.” Enjolras bites his lip, anger bubbling up inside him. “He was just showing me how to use a spade!”  
“If he so much as looks at you again, Julien, I will terminate his employment.”

 

The guests start to arrive at sunset, around 8pm. Enjolras watches from his window, sighing when he sees how many boys his age his parents had invited. He throws a cursory glance in the mirror, runs a hand through his hair in an aborted attempt to tame the curls, and leaves. His mother had given him clothes to change into, white shirt, black and silver waistcoat, and black trousers. He pulls on his black boots, reserved only for special occasions, and closes his door.

 

Outside, his parents are quick to introduce him as their son, and he smiles politely at the seemingly-endless parade of guests. “And these,” his mother tells him, guiding him towards the group of young men he had seen earlier, “are your new friends. Il est mon fils, Julien,” she says to them, patting him on the shoulder before venturing away in the search for a canapé.

“Bonjour, Julien.” They chorus, “Enjolras,” he corrects, “c’est meilleur.” The boy directly in front of him nods, and introduces himself as Combeferre. Enjolras can’t help the small smile he has when he spots the moths on Combeferre’s navy waistcoat. “I, uh, I like them,” he drawls in a thick accent, “in French, it is ‘papillon de nuit’.”

Enjolras repeats it, the words feeling strange in his mouth. “Would you like a drink?” another boy asks, he is tall, almost as tall as Enjolras, with short brown hair, “yes, please,” he replies, “what is your name?” As he turns towards the bar, he smiles welcomingly, “Marius Pontmercy.”

 

One drink turns into two, which somehow turns into eight. The group of boys is offensively drunk by 11pm, and the party shows no sign of stopping. Enjolras stumbles to the buffet, turning back to laugh at a joke made by Courfeyrac he thinks, or was it Joly? When he straightens up, he collides with another.

“Ah, désolé,”

Enjolras smiles, “Grantaire.” “Vous êtes ivre,” Grantaire chuckles, placing his tray on the table. “Vous avez besoin d’air frais?... Monsieur?” He leans forward, propping Enjolras up by his shoulders, “Mons-”

“Your mouth,” Enjolras slurs, looking up through his eyelashes, “I want to touch it.” He reaches out one hand, which Grantaire holds on to, pushing it gently down. His eyes search for Enjolras’ in the fading light, “Monsieur,” he breathes, suddenly aware of their close proximity, “il faut qu’on aille.”

 

Enjolras allows Grantaire to lead him outside, the cold air wrapping around him like a vice. He rests back against the side of the marquee that had been erected for the night, inhaling sharply as the alcohol hits him. Grantaire watches, a look of concerned amusement on his face. They make eye contact and laugh. “Sorry,” Enjolras mutters after a few seconds, “I don’t re- umm, je ne bois pas,”

“C’est evident,” Grantaire agrees with a smirk, “c’est adorable quand tu parles en français. J’aime bien de t’écouter, tes paroles, et ton accent. Pour moi, c’est comme une chanson des anges.”

“Je ne comprends pas,” Enjolras laughs again, “my French… pas bien.”

“C’est très bien,” Grantaire corrects, touching Enjolras’ arm, “tu dois être fièr de toi-même. Je ne peux pas parler en anglais, mais tu as fait un grand effort, je suis fièr.”

It takes Enjolras a couple of seconds to compute what he says, but when he does, he smiles. “Parles à moi en anglais.”

Grantaire sighs, “je ne peux pas, c’es-”

“Say anything. Je veux que tu parles en anglais.” He can see that Grantaire is embarrassed, so takes his hand, squeezing lightly, “je sais que je suis ivre, mais je suis sûr de… de ce que je veux.”

“Hello,” Grantaire says quietly, his accent thick and heavy, “I am French. I am… gardener?” He looks up at Enjolras for reassurance, and is met with the biggest smile he’s ever seen.

“Grantaire,” He says, tilting his head up with two fingers, “your mouth is so nice… to look at, you know?”

He smiles, allowing Enjolras to hold him steady, “thank you, Julien.” He feels Enjolras’ grip on his jaw tighten, and the blood rushes to his legs.

“What did you say?” Enjolras murmurs, his breath hitting just under Grantaire’s ear. “J’ai dit, thank you, Julien.”

 

Before he can properly think about his decisions, Enjolras’ lips are on Grantaire’s, his hands snaking under the back of Grantaire’s shirt. He feels Grantaire gasp into his mouth, then the warmth of his hands in his hair, pulling gently. His tongue pushes against Grantaire’s, and then it hits him. He stumbles backwards, pushing Grantaire away. The smaller boy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking slightly.

“I-” He stutters, still reeling. “I am… sorry,” Grantaire offers, wiping his clammy hands onto his trousers, “je ne pouvais pas m’arrêter, ton visage…” he takes a hesitant breath, “je pense à toi tout le temps.”

He isn’t sure if Enjolras understands, but he hopes simultaneously that he does and that he doesn’t. He doesn’t get an answer, as Enjolras refuses to meet his gaze.

“Julien,” he tries, reaching his hand out. Enjolras flinches, “I must go, the party…” he says.  
When he is inside, Grantaire puts his hands into his pockets, and looks towards the sky. The moon reflects off the trees around him, and he feels tears forming in his eyes.

 

“Julien,” he mutters to himself, “je crois que je pourrais t’aimer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I will go, you will go, he"  
> "he will go, we will go, you will go, they will go"  
> "thank you Grantaire"  
> "you're welcome. your father told me there will be a party tonight."  
> (literally) "you are to the party tonight" = are you going?  
> "yes I will be there. and you?"  
> "w-what are you doing with that?"  
> "very boring. would you like to try it?"  
> "here, the king of the gardens"  
> "I have to..."  
> "He is my son"  
> "it is better"  
> "ah, sorry"  
> "you are drunk. do you need some fresh air? sir?"  
> "we must go"  
> "I don't drink"  
> "that's obvious. it's adorable when you speak French, I like listening to you, your words, and your accent. For me, it's like a song from the angels"  
> "I don't understand"  
> "It's very good. You should be proud of yourself. I can't speak English, but you have made a huge effort. I am proud."  
> "Speak to me in English"  
> "I can't, it's-"  
> "I want you to speak in English. I know that I'm drunk, but I'm sure of what I want."  
> "I said..."  
> "I couldn't stop myself, your face... I think about you all the time."  
> "I think that I love you."


	3. j'ai parfois l'ame en crise

For a week, they barely see each other. One overcast morning, as Enjolras finishes the last of his breakfast, he asks his mother where Grantaire is.

“He’s on the far side of the garden, some new project your father ordered.” She says, smiling in thanks as a servant comes to take their plates away. 

“Anything I can help with?” 

His mother pauses, a worried look seeping across her face, “Your father… well- I think it’s best if you just stay inside today. I fear it might rain.” 

“If they can work in the rain, so can I.” 

“It’s just,” she sets her book down, resting her hands on the cover, “they’re used to this kind of thing. Not you, my darling boy, we have given you the best life we could. You have not known dirt, cold, or damp. I think, at your age, it wouldn’t be a good idea to start with all of that nonsense.” 

Enjolras sighs loudly, standing up from the table. “Alright, fine.” He leaves the room, and just as he swings round the column to use the stairs, he sees Grantaire in the kitchen. His feet take him in before he can stop them, and he realises that they aren’t alone. Six people stare at him, and he quickly goes red. 

“Monsieur?” one asks, soaking from the rain, “on peut vous aider?” 

Enjolras can’t respond, as Grantaire interrupts. “Non. On ne peut pas, on est des esclaves.” 

The men laugh, and Enjolras feels something twisting inside him, “je veux parler avec Grantaire.” 

Everyone focuses on him, on the dark curls stuck to his hair with water, on the challenge in his eyes. 

“Quel dommage,” he laughs bitterly, “car je ne le veux pas.” Others titter around him, and Enjolras understands that the feeling in his stomach is hurt, mixed with embarrassment. 

“Oh,” he mumbles, deflated, “peut-être un peu plus tard.” 

“Peut-être pas. On n’est pas tes amis, Anglais. Va-t’en.” 

Enjolras turns quickly on his heels, his eyes stinging as he hears them cackling behind him. He thinks back to the party, to the time outside they had shared. Yes, it was wrong of him to just leave, but surely, it’s equally as wrong for Grantaire to shun him with such malice? 

“Something wrong, boy?” his father asks, blocking the entrance to the stairwell. 

“No,” Enjolras says fiercely, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. 

“Julien,” he warns, taking a further step towards him, “talk to me.” 

“It’s them,” he tells him, half-tilting to face the kitchen doorway, “they make me feel like I don’t belong here.” 

His father straightens, adjusting his shirt collar. “Right, leave it with me.” 

  
Enjolras is up the stairs and in his bedroom by the time he hears his father shout. He can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but he knows it’s serious. He hears a name, Grantaire, and his breath catches in his throat. He hadn’t meant to get them in trouble, not big trouble, and a wave of guilt washes over him. Almost as quickly as it starts, it is over. The silence is uncomfortable, static. He stands by his window and watches as the men start to work. He sees his father under an umbrella, his face red. He’s spitting at a boy in a green jacket and a red cap. Grantaire. He can’t see Grantaire’s expression, but he imagines that it’s grim. _This is all my fault,_ he tells himself, _if only I hadn’t been so sensitive._

  
That afternoon, there is a knock at his bedroom door. He closes his textbook, and leans back on his seat. “Come in!” he calls, twirling his pencil between his fingers. To his surprise, the door opens and reveals Grantaire. He isn’t wearing shoes, his mother had probably insisted he take them off, and his clothes have a wet sheen still. Enjolras notes that he looks miserable. 

“I am sorry,” Grantaire says, not looking at him, “pour les choses que j’ai dit avant.” 

Enjolras stops rocking on his chair, “I’m sorry for what my father said. P-pour ce que mon père a dit.” 

Grantaire shakes his head, “j’étais en colère. Je suis en colère, quand-même.” Enjolras squints in confusion, “why?” 

“Parce que, tu…” Grantaire closes the door behind him and steps into the room, “why you leave? Après… you know. You leave and I am sad with the trees.” 

Enjolras feels his heart ache in his chest, he hadn’t given it a second thought. He needed to get back to the party, to get away from Grantaire’s beguiling draw, before something serious happened. 

“I want you stay,” Grantaire admits, pulling him out of his thoughts, “but you leave. I am angry because you leave. I want to kiss you more at la fête.” 

“I wanted to kiss you more, too. But, Grantaire,” he stands up, moving towards him, “something could have happened, something more. I couldn’t risk it.” 

“Mais plus tard, il sera trop tard.” 

“I know,” Enjolras mutters. Grantaire shivers, and Enjolras remembers he is soaking wet. He opens his wardrobe, handing him a shirt and some trousers. “Here, put these on.” 

“Merci,” Grantaire whispers, turning to the door. “No,” Enjolras says before he can stop himself, “you can change here. Ici.” 

“Tu es sûr?” He asks, and Enjolras nods. “je vais lire.” 

Sitting at his desk once more, he is horribly aware that Grantaire is undressing behind him. He risks a glance, and sees him pulling off his damp shirt. The muscles on his torso are defined, and Enjolras swallows hard. He turns back to his book, unable to properly concentrate. 

“Il y a une chambre où je peux les mettre?” 

He gets up, taking the sopping clothes from him. He looks beautiful, with Enjolras’ shirt hanging loosely from his broad shoulders, his trousers wrinkling at his ankles because they’re too long. 

“Très beau,” he says at last, causing Grantaire to smile, “c’est toi, le beau.” He takes Enjolras’ hands in his own and swings them gently from side to side, “je suis désolé pour les choses que j’ai fait. Je sais que tu ne peux pas me comprendre mais je crois que tu sois la personne qui je pourrais adorer pour toute ma vie. Est-ce que tu me comprends?” 

Enjolras shakes his head, “no, I don’t. Mais j’aime tes lèvres.” This makes Grantaire laugh, “j’aime ton visage.” 

“J’aime tes yeux.” “J’aime tes bras.” “J’aime ton sourire.” “J’aime tes cils.” “Je t’aime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "can we help you?"  
> "no, we can't. we are slaves."  
> "I want to talk to Grantaire"  
> "what a shame" (sarcastic) "because I don't want to"  
> "maybe a bit later"  
> "maybe not. We aren't friends, English (insult) get lost."  
> "for the things that I said before"  
> "F-for what my father said"  
> "I was angry. I am angry, still."  
> "Because you...after"  
> "but later, it will be too late"  
> "here"  
> "are you sure?"  
> "I am going to read"  
> "Is there a room I can put these in?"  
> "very handsome/beautiful"  
> "you're the handsome/beautiful one"  
> "I am sorry for the things I've done. I know that you can't understand me but I believe that you are the person that I could treasure for all my life. Do you understand me?"  
> "I like your lips"  
> "I like your face"  
> "I like your eyes"  
> "I like your arms"  
> "I like your smile"  
> "I like your eyelashes"  
> "I love you."


	4. mon bonheur me meprise

Grantaire’s hands go limp, and Enjolras lets them drop.

“I-I’m…” he stutters, “I didn’t-I don’t, its-” the words don’t seem to come out, so his mouth moves with no noise. He can feel that his face is turning red, wanting to hide but having nowhere to go.

Grantaire studies his expression intently, “you…m’aimes?”

Enjolras shoves his face into his hands and nods, too embarrassed to speak. Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and he suddenly feels very small.

“Me more,” he finally says, and Enjolras looks up in confusion. Grantaire clears his throat, “je t’aime plus… que tu m’aimes.”

He lets out a relieved breath, and smiles, “no, no. Faux.”

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras revels in the sound. “Je te jure.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras moves his hand to stroke his back. His heart beat steadies, and he can feel Grantaire’s beating gently through his shirt.

Enjolras pulls back, his fingers delicately under Grantaire’s chin. He can see Grantaire’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and feels his breath hitch. His eyelids flutter closed and he leans down.

 

The knock at the door startles both. Without waiting for a reply, they enter. It is his father.

 

Enjolras sits heavily on his bed, his eyes blurry and red, wiping away spit with the back of his sleeve. His father had been livid. He had hauled Grantaire away by his shirt, ignored Enjolras’ desperate protests. He twists his fingers nervously, his breathing catching when he hears footsteps on the stairs. The door opens to reveal his mother, the ghost of sadness on her face. She holds out a hand, and he stands.

“I know.” She says before he can speak. He nods in resignation, “is he…”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, “I’m sorry.”

She holds him, one arm around his waist and the other holding his cheek. “I know.”

 

In the living room sits Grantaire, dishevelled and visibly afraid. Enjolras’ father sits behind a desk on the far side, waiting.

When they enter, Enjolras chokes. Grantaire looks so painfully small, and the distance between them feels like miles although it’s only a few metres. They make eye contact, and Enjolras’ heart _burns_. He wants to clutch him to his chest, tell him he loves him, that he meant every single word. But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“You are not to see that boy again.” His father says sternly, leaving no room for debate.

“Now, I don’t –” his mother tries, but she is met with a look of malice. “No, no son of mine is getting messed up in this business.”

“This business?” Enjolras asks indignantly, his anger starting to taste bitter in his mouth.

“He’s-”

“He’s what?” Enjolras bites, his brow furrowed.

His father slams a hand on his desk, standing, “He is scum, the scum of the Earth. He was born in the gutter and that’s where he will stay. No good for you.”

There is a guttural noise, and Enjolras knows Grantaire has understood. He kicks his chair away as his mother watches in horror.

“I love him.” He declares fiercely, “and I don’t care what you think. I love him, and that’s enough.”

“You love him?” she clarifies, a hint of surprise evident.

“Yes, I do.” He says, turning to her, a look of desperation in his eyes.

“He is not welcome here.” His father sits, calmer now. He has had the last word. It’s done.

“I-”

“No, Julien.” He says, opening the top drawer to find his box of cigars. “It’s over.”

Enjolras flicks between his parents for a few seconds, mouth open, before picking up the papers and books from his father’s desk and flinging them at the bookcase. They clatter to the floor, taking a few more books with them, and he tastes blood now. Without looking at them, he storms out of the room, slamming the door as hard as he can. He feels the reverberations in the floor, and wants to cry.

 

Grantaire is halfway down the drive when Enjolras catches up with him.

“Stop, Grantaire, he-”

He does stop, and Enjolras feels his chest tighten when he sees the streaks of tears running down Grantaire’s face. He pulls him into a hug, his hand tangled in his messy hair. Grantaire hiccups and shakes against him, crying into his jacket as Enjolras shushes him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over, running a soothing hand across his back, “he didn’t mean it. He’s wrong.”

“On ne peut pas.” Grantaire mumbles, wiping his nose and hiccupping again. “Il a raison.”

“No,” Enjolras hisses, wincing at the realisation of what Grantaire means, “no, he’s wrong. Listen to me, please.”

Grantaire shakes his head, detaching himself from Enjolras’ grip. “I must go.”

“Please,” Enjolras implores, trying to pull Grantaire’s hand out of his pocket, but to no avail. “Please, he didn’t mean it. Please, please, don’t leave.”

Grantaire says nothing, but smiles sadly. This makes Enjolras inexplicably angry, and he thumps him twice in the chest. No reaction.

“You’re not leaving,” he spits, grabbing his collar and forcing them closer, “you are staying here, with me.”

He is met with a steady gaze, and he recoils, pushing Grantaire away. “Feel something for me!” He shouts, a destructive feeling bubbling up inside him, threatening to explode. He needed to calm down, but he couldn’t, because Grantaire was so _indifferent._

“I love you.” He growls, pulling him closer until he could feel Grantaire’s breath against him. “Please,” he begs, “please, feel something for me.”

Something detonates inside him, the knowledge that he will have to force a reaction out of him. He curls his fist and hits him so hard that he can hear his jaw crack. Grantaire staggers, silent. He spits blood on the floor, and refuses to look up. Enjolras lunges forward, shoving him into the garden wall. He watches his head collide with the bricks and feels nothing but rage and sadness.

“Grantaire,” he croaks, “feel something.”

His face is a mess, his eyebrow cut from the impact. His mouth is parted, and the blood drips from his split lip onto his shirt. He wipes it with his sodden sleeve, turning away from Enjolras. He is clearly winded, but he continues to walk. Enjolras is fixed to the spot, watching him leave.

He screams Grantaire’s name, the sound twisting from him is primal and agonised. Grantaire hesitates momentarily, but doesn’t stop. He takes a book out of his jacket and tosses it carelessly behind him, and the moonlight glints off the pages as it falls to the floor.

 

When Enjolras picks it up, he wants to run after him, but he _can’t_. It is a green notebook, with an R scratched into the cover with what seems to be a knife. He holds it close to his chest and leans his head back to look at the sky. His face scrunches up as he begins to cry again, and the wind whips at his coattails. He grudgingly walks back to the house, seeing his mother waiting for him on the porch steps.

She rocks him gently back and forth, shushing into his ear, brushing his hair away from his damp face. “Go to bed,” she tells him softly, “we will talk in the morning, you and I.”

He nods, exhausted, the notebook burning a hole in his pocket.

 

He opens it carefully, fingers trailing over the scrawled pencil marks. Tears well in his eyes again, and he has to look at his ceiling and breathe slowly to steady himself.

_Pour toi,_

_Tu me touches et je m’allume en feu. Mon poignet flambe l_ _à o_ _ù tes doigts recontrent ma peau. Les brûlures n’apparaissent pas, mais c’est difficule de respirer avec les cendres dans mes poumons. Je suis étouffant._

_Ça fait mal de te regarder. Tu brille. Tu es plus brilliant que le soleil. Tu es trop beau pour mes yeux. C’est difficile de te voir, mais c’est encore plus difficile de détourner mon regard. Je serai aveugle._

_Mes oreilles sont réglées sur ta voix. Je pourrias te choisir dans une mer de milliers. Ta voix fait que les beaux chanteurs qui chantent les belles chansons sonnent ternes. Ta voix rend tout le reste moche._

_La couleur de tes yeux est assez bleue pour se noyer. Tu me transformes en un être cliché d’amour-bourré. Je me noie._

_Je te connais, et je t’aime. Par mille fois, à travers des millions d’étoiles, je te trouverais, je ne te quitterais jamais. Je t’aime jusqu’à la mort nous séparons._

 

Enjolras can’t breathe. His throat closes and he aches all over. “I love you,” he groans into the darkness of his room, “I love you, I love you.”

The wave of sadness hits him when he realises that Grantaire won’t be coming back. That this isn’t just a fight, it’s _the_ fight. The last time he will see him, with blood smeared across his crooked teeth, his eyelashes clumped together, gasping for air when his lungs are filled with hurt. He wants Grantaire to tell him it’s not him, it’s not the bad thing he did. But it is, and he knows that.

And Grantaire is gone, and it’s his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((sorry this is so shit lmao I've been super busy also my french might be rubbish lol)))
> 
> "you...love me?"  
> "I love you more... than you love me"  
> "False"  
> "I promise you"  
> "we can't. He is right"  
> "For you, you touch me and I light on fire. My wrist blazes where your fingers meet my skin, the burns don't show, but it's hard to breathe with ash in my lungs. I'm suffocating."  
> "It hurts to watch you. You shine. You're brighter than the sun. You're too beautiful for my eyes. It's hard to look at you, but it's even harder to look away from you. I am going blind."  
> "My ears are tuned to your voice. I could choose you in a sea of thousands. Your voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. Your voice makes everything else sound ugly."  
> "The colour of your eyes is blue enough to drown in. You are turning me into a clichéd, love-drunk being. I'm drowning."  
> "I know you and I love you. Through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, I'd find you, I'd never leave you. I love you, until death do we part."


	5. si je m'endors, me réveillerez-vous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i know the Eiffel tower was built years after 1832 but honestly who fucking cares lmao

Enjolras isn’t sure of the date. The 4th? The 5th, maybe. It doesn’t matter. Grantaire is still gone. He loses count of the days, a blur of impenetrable darkness, and burning sunlight invading his room. He thinks it’s been a month. He hasn’t done much, everything is an aching reminder of him. He doesn’t sing, every song echoes with the cadence of his voice. He stopped reading; every metaphor in every poem painting a portrait of him. He can’t even trust sleep; every dream casts him as the lead. Every distraction is fleeting, and every thought leads back to Grantaire.

His mother checks him every few hours, but has long abandoned trying to coax him out of his bedroom. He doesn’t eat, the plate going untouched for days before he pushes it back into the hallway with his foot. His cheeks are hollowing, faded. The infamous curls are straggly, unkempt, and unwashed. He does dress, but won’t get undressed for days afterwards. He is too tired, too fragile to exert himself so much. He thinks how terrible it is to be called beautiful, smart, strong but end up being alone every night. He wishes that people would die when their hearts break, but they don’t. They don’t. The pain lingers inside an empty chest, filled with broken promises and shards of a heart that just won’t fit together like it used to, no matter how hard you try to fix it.

He is darkness, he may be ringed by light, but like a solar eclipse, that light is blinding. Enjolras can't look at him, _please, let me look at him one more time._ He would gladly go blind. He blows out the candle by his bed, but still the moonlight seeps in through his window. He begs as he attempts to sleep, _please, let me sleep, keep him away, give me a moment's rest._  Can sleep truly stop such radiance? Can sleep even overcome someone when they are bathed in such divinity as is that light? He laughs and rolls over, who is he to talk about divinity? He is no Hyacinth, his beauty does not offer him a place at Grantaire's feet. He isn't sure if he wants him back, or if he wants him to disappear forever. _He is awful, awful, why do I love him so?_

His smile. It is crooked, it is a mortal smile. Enjolras curses his all-too-human heart for fluttering at the thought. His hands fall from where they are clasped on top of the blanket, almost in prayer. _Do not worship him, not again, he is no god._ He is light. But light breathes, light laughs, the light is living. He lives, in the heart of Paris he is living. Enjolras sighs, maybe the light is warmer than he first thought.

 

On the 11th, when it has been a month, his mother enlists the help of his friends. They call themselves ‘Les Amis’ affectionately, and she thinks they are sweethearts. Around noon, she enters his room to tell him they would be there within the hour. He is sitting on his bed, which he had pushed next to the window a fortnight earlier, looking out of the window. The light casts a rectangle onto the floor, illuminating the dust in the air. It catches his right shoulder, the white of his starched shirt gleaming. She thinks that he gleams like that when he smiles, when he _smiled._ There is a faint buzzing by her ankle as a fly lands on his plate of cold, stale food. He doesn’t turn, has barely registered that the door opened, and she clears her throat. He flinches, but remains where he is.

“Julien, may I talk with you?”

He nods slowly, and she moves to sit beside him. The smell of unwashed bedsheets is strong, which she recognises is the smell of grief. She can see dry patches, where he had cried into the fabric, littered all over the bed. She sighs, rubbing his back gently.

“There is a particular kind of suffering to be experienced when you love something greater than you love yourself,” she says quietly, noticing the dark, almost purple, circles around his eyes. “You always said you hated things that you can’t control, and I know you can’t get rid of the pain, but you can control how you deal with it.”

He looks up this time, his blue eyes dull with the weight of a thousand tears and sleepless nights. “If I am alone, nobody can break my heart.”

“You’re going to get your heart broken more times than this, darling. But then one day, someone will come along and nobody will ever break your heart again,” she pulls him to her, her arm around his bony shoulders, “I promise you.” She whispers into his matted curls.

“He is wrong..” Enjolras says weakly, “ 'Taire was always good enough.”

His mother nods thoughtfully, running her fingers through the back of his hair, “Anyone can love a rose, but it takes a great person to love a leaf.” She feels a dampness on her blouse and shushes him, “it is ordinary to love the beautiful, Julien, but it is beautiful to love the ordinary.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, her stroking his back as he gently weeps. As he wipes his eyes, she catches a glimpse of angry red scratches on his wrist. Her breath sticks in her throat, and she has to look at the ceiling to avoid crying in front of him.

When she composes herself, she fakes a smile and takes him by the hand. “Marius and Courfeyrac will be here soon. They are taking you out for the afternoon.”

“But I-” he begins to protest, but she presses a finger to his lips, “you are such a soft and messy thing. Nobody knows how to take care of you. But we will try.”

 

Marius and Courfeyrac arrive promptly on the hour, and he winces when he hears them crashing and laughing through the house. His mother had forced him to wash his hair, even though he did it in the sink half-heartedly, and she had picked out some clothes. When he looks in the mirror, the boy staring back is unrecognisable. Pale and thin, collarbones jutting out of his shirt, the trousers creasing where there should be muscle and skin, but instead there is only sadness. He pulls on his worn-out boots and trudges down the stairs.

Courfeyrac claps him on the back, which almost knocks him over considering his frailty. They have been clearly briefed by his mother, because they recite their lines like a script.

“We are taking you to Paris,” Courfeyrac says, beaming. Marius nods maniacally, adding “to the Tour Eiffel.”

Enjolras rubs his eyes, feeling a headache brewing. He thinks about his bedroom, the safe space in his house. Where he can cry and hurt and sleep and cry some more. Before he can come up with an excuse, Marius has his arm around his shoulder, pulling him to the cloakroom.

“Here,” he smiles, handing Enjolras his red coat, “très beau.” Enjolras returns his smile, weak and dazed. “Merci.” He mumbles, noting how it fits a lot bigger than it used to.

 

What he had not expected was the size of the crowd. Thousands of people mill around him, talking loudly in rapid French, the smell, the sight, the noise: he’s quickly overwhelmed. Towering above him, quite literally, is la Tour Eiffel. Huge metal legs soar into the blue sky, and arch effortlessly over the city. He feels strangely emotional, to be part of such a historic event. Something twinges inside him as he thinks how one day he could make history. Turning to his friends, he realises maybe he could make history with them.

The thought is pushed aside as the fanfare begins, and the Mayor’s procession takes place. Enjolras watches on as swathes of people approach, all desperate to get a glimpse of the opening ceremony. He doesn’t understand much of what’s being said, _un moment historique, un triomphe d’ing_ _énierie, on peut toucher le ciel._ Zoning out, he lets his eyes wander over the crowd. He recognises nobody, but isn’t surprised, he barely left the estate even when he had the energy to. Now he spends his days desolate and alone. And then--

It’s him.

It’s him, in person, he’s there, a few rows away. It’s him, in a red cap and a green jacket and it’s him, it’s him, _it’s him._ His breath won’t come out, and he stumbles into Marius, who catches him, a confused frown forming.

“Ça va, Enj?” he asks, both hands on Enjolras’ shoulders. He can’t take his eyes away from Grantaire, standing so casually only metres from him. He hasn’t seen him yet, he’s focussed on the ceremony, and Enjolras is glad.

“Ye-yeah, yes. I’m alright.” He replies, forcing himself to make eye contact. Marius looks concerned, and nudges Courfeyrac.

“Peut-être on doit partir,” he says, tilting his head towards an even paler Enjolras, “il va tomber.”

 

They sit on the curb, Enjolras’ knees pressed to his chest, Courfeyrac rubbing his back soothingly. Enjolras coughs out an apology, but the two boys both shake their heads, telling him not to worry about it, everyone gets lightheaded in crowds. Enjolras swallows, wishing it was the crowd itself and not one person in it.

“I am heartbroken.” He tells them, his hands steadying his jittering knees. He can feel his kneecaps through the thin trousers, and he tries to remember when he last ate properly.

“We know,” Marius says, interrupting his thought process, “but we cannot sit and stare at our wounds forever.”

Enjolras sighs heavily and slumps further downwards, his head resting on his legs. He remembers before the party, when he and Grantaire had been so oblivious, so free.

 

_“Why do you do that?” Enjolras asks, his face scrunching in amusement._

_“Quoi?” Grantaire drawled, leaning against the tree, brushing dirt on his trousers._

_“Why do you call me Apollo?”_

_Grantaire thought for a moment, and then set his eyes on Enjolras’ face._

_“Je t’appelle Apollo parce que tu es la lumi_ _è_ _re la plus lumineuse. Mon monde est si sombre, si froid et la chaleur du vin n’est jamais suffisante par rapport au toucher de ta peau. Je t’appelle Apollo parce que tu es la v_ _é_ _rit_ _é_ _, et tu es le proph_ _è_ _te, et quand l’obscurit_ _é_ _viendra, j’adorai_ _à_ _ton autel. Toi, le soleil rayonnant, et moi, pauvre Icarus.”_

_Enjolras is silent. He doesn’t understand a word. He smiles and tilts his head to the side, “umm bien.”_

_Grantaire laughs loudly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “bien,” he echoes, “tr_ _ès bien.”_

He shakes his head at the memory, his hair falling over his face. He is ready to leave when Courfeyrac spots something, or somebody.

“Attendez,” he says quickly, “je vais retourner dans un moment.”

Marius doesn’t look up from the gravel but nods, and Enjolras watches him speed-walk into the wall of people before them.

“Do you know where he went?” he asks, and Marius just chuckles, “probably to a girl, une pétasse.”

“Oh.” Says Enjolras.

 

“Marius, c’est le mec dont je t’ai parlé ! Il est dans mon class de philosophie, il est super cool, je te promets.”

Enjolras doesn’t really pay attention, the french is fast and he is too tired to engage in a conversation. That is, until he hears a semi-strangled noise from in front of him. He opens his eyes and blinks up at Courfeyrac and—

And Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "very handsome"  
> "thanks"  
> "a historic moment, an engineering triumph, we can touch the sky"  
> "are you okay, Enj?"  
> "maybe we should go, he is going to fall over"  
> "what?"  
> "I call you Apollo because you are the brightest light. My world is so dark, so cold, and the warmth of win is never enough compared to the touch of your skin. I call you Apollo because you are the truth, you are the prophet, and when the darkness comes, I will worship at your altar. You, the radiant sun, and I, poor Icarus"  
> "umm good"  
> "good, very good"  
> "wait, I will be back in a moment"  
> "a slag/slut"  
> "Marius, it's the guy I told you about, he's in my philosophy class, he's super cool I promise you."


	6. j'ai ne compte meme plus les anges

Marius is the first to speak.

“Grantaire,” he asks, his wide eyes locked on Enjolras instead, “qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?”

“Je suis ici pour voir la Tour.” He answers, his voice weak.

Enjolras is unable to move. He takes in Grantaire’s green jacket, the black vest underneath, the contrast of the absinthe with the crimson of his hat. Even the dirt on the cuffs of his trousers.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras says suddenly, his brain working faster than his mouth, “I—”

Grantaire lifts his hand to tell him to stop, “please, no.”

Courfeyrac interjects, “attendez, vous… vous connaissez ?” To which Grantaire nods solemnly, “l’amour fait des ennemis, ou des étrangers. Ou rien.”

“On n’est pas de rien!” Enjolras snarls, his repressed anger rising to the surface, “you fucking left.”

“Hey, Enj,” Marius says, stepping in front of Enjolras to prevent him from standing up, “calmes-toi.”

He looks into Marius’ eyes desperately, “we aren’t nothing, I..”

“I know. And he knows, too. Calmes—”

“I did not.”

Marius spins on his heel, and Enjolras stares up from behind him. It is Grantaire who had spoken.

“I did not leave,” he repeats, “It was for you.”

“Bullshit.” Enjolras scoffs, standing up slowly and brushing the dust off his sleeves, “you left, and I was stuck picking up the pieces. It wasn’t fair.”

“It isn’t fair?” Grantaire says, incredulous, “you’ve got ‘I love you’ in your mouth, pas dans ton cœur. You drink alcohol parce que tu l’aimes, I drink to forget you. Un jour, you say you love me, you say tu as besoin de moi, but when I need you, tu es disparu.” His voice begins to tremble, “it isn’t fair que quelqu’un toujours aime plus, quelqu’un toujours essaye plus, mais quelqu’un toujours blesse l’autre, même quand l’autre a donné tout ce qu’il pouvait.”

“Grantaire, y—” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire cuts him off with a sigh and a downward gaze.

“J’aimerais être assez fort pour laisser aller toutes ces pensées qui chantent de toi, je veux que mon esprit fasse quelque chose de plus intéressant que de souvenir de la dernière fois que tu me disais que tu m’aimais, j’aimerais pouvoir passer du temps avec n’importe qui et ne pas les comparer, j’aimerais avoir la force de peindre notre histoire dans une couleur différente, j’aimerais être mieux pour pardonner les gens, de les laisser partir. J’aimerais être mieux à l’amour.”

 

Nobody says anything for a painful few minutes. Courfeyrac has his hand clenched on Grantaire’s upper sleeve, his face set in a grimace; Marius mirrors this. Enjolras has his eyes closed tightly, it is only Grantaire, the cynic, the non-believer, the measly labourer, who faces the world.

“On vous laisse.” Courfeyrac eventually says, to no-one in particular. Marius nods, casting a glance over his shoulder at Enjolras, who refuses to meet anyone’s eyes. Grantaire copies him, his hat tipping forward slightly as he nods.

As they start to walk away, Grantaire pulls on Marius’ coat, making him turn.

“S’il te plait, retourne plutôt.”

“Oui, à bientôt.”

 

“Julien,” Grantaire mumbles, taking a small step towards him, his hands still deep in his pockets to hide their shaking, “je suis désolé.”

“Pour quoi?” Enjolras replies, tilting his head to the side. Grantaire can’t look at him.

“Je sais que je n’ai jamais dit au revoir. Je pensais que cela ne signifierait rien pour toi, j-j’ai dit ces mots un million de fois dans ma tête, je les ai déversés page après page mais je n’ai jamais dit ça.”

Enjolras finally looks up from where he was trailing a spindly twig through the dust, horrified when he spots the tears falling on Grantaire’s cheeks. He doesn’t know what to say.

Grantaire continues, “j’étais nerveux la première fois qu’on s’est rencontre. Je n’ai jamais eu autant de mal que toutes les fois où j’ai pensé qu’on ne s’entend pas. Car dès les premiers mots qu’on a partagés, j’ai su que tu étais la personne. Et ça m’a fait tomber plus dur pour toi. Je savais que je ne pouvais pas t’avoir, mais j’ai continué à me torturer avec des fantaisies de nous ensemble. Je ne t’ai jamais dit. Et maintenant, je suis ici, je suis en face de toi. Je te montre toutes mes cicatrices, et toute mon âme, et tout ce que tu feras est de partir. Et je ne peux pas te regarder faire ça.”

He turns, crying more now. His shoulders shake with sadness, and had Enjolras had a whole heart it would have broken at the sight. But his heart lies shattered on the cold ground of his garden, where Grantaire had walked out of his life.

“Je ne suis pas parti.” Enjolras says quietly, watching as he twists his own hands together, “Je ne partirais jamais. C’était toi.”

Grantaire looks away, down to his side, and wipes his eyes with the hem of his sleeve.

“There are days when I cannot help but to remember your face. To imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers through your hair, or to kiss your jaw. To feel your eyes on me once again. On those days, I believe you will come back.”

Grantaire says nothing, so he continues, “but there are other days when even imagining a hypothetical you is like being stabbed in my heart. When the thought of you feels like being submerged in freezing water, a shock that stops my breath. On those days, I know you never will.”

They are suddenly facing each other, and Enjolras’ breathe catches in his throat. Grantaire’s steely blue eyes are stern, “as-tu manqué quelqu’un tellement que les étrangers dans la rue commencent a ressembler à lui?”

“I—”

“No. Tu es partout. J’essaye de me cacher dans mes pensées mais tu es là encore. Je ne peux pas m’enfuir. C’est probable que tu ne le saches pas, Anglais, mais les français sont heureux de mourir pour l’amour. La mort, elle arrivera, et elle aura mes yeux, mais à l’intérieur d’eux, elle te trouvera.”

“Grantaire..” Enjolras whispers hoarsely, “you cannot—I…”

He smiles sadly, “Dieu sait qu’un pécheur a besoin d’un saint.”

“Please Gra—” Enjolras pleads, reaching out to fist the front of his green coat. He just wants it all to stop, to rewind back to a happier time.

Grantaire’s left hand gently cups Enjolras’ cheek, and his thumb strokes slowly the soft skin. He had forgotten the feeling.

“Tu n’es qu’un sac d’os, un cœur qui bat, et des yeux brillants. Comment m’as-tu fait si mal?”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras chokes, his eyes brimming, “I don’t… I don’t know what you want me to say. Qu’est-ce que tu veux entendre?”

“I don’t know.” He tells him honestly, “j’ai rêvé de ce moment depuis la nuit, et encore je n’en sais pas. Je veux que tu me dises que tu m’aimes, que ce n’est pas fini, que je suis l’un pour toi. Mais je comprends finalement que ce n’est pas le cas.”

With that, he drops his hand, shoving it back into his pocket. Enjolras’ grip loosens and he lets go.

“Please, don’t leave.” He says, and the memory of the last time he said it burns in his head.

“Please.

“Grantaire, please."

He begins to sob.

“Grantaire, please don’t leave me again.”

 

“Au revoir, Ange.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "what are you doing here?"  
> "I am here to see the Tower"  
> "wait, you know each other?"  
> "Love makes enemies, or strangers. Or nothing."  
> "We aren't nothing"  
> "Calm down"  
> "...not in your heart...because you like it...one day...you need me...you are gone... someone always loves more, someone always tries harder, but someone always hurts the other, even when they gave all that they could."
> 
> "I would like to be strong enough to let go of all the thoughts that are about you, I want my mind to do something other than remember the last time that you told me you loved me, I would like to be able to spend time with whoever and not compare them to you, I would like to have the strength to paint our story in a different colour, I would like to be better at forgiving people, to let them go. I would like to be better at love."
> 
> "We will leave you two"  
> "Please, come back soon"  
> "We will"
> 
> "I'm sorry"  
> "what for?"  
> "I know that I never said goodbye. I thought that it would mean nothing to you, I-I said those words a million times in my head, I poured them on page after page, but I never said it."
> 
> "I was nervous the first time that we met. I had never hurt as badly as when I thought we wouldn't get on. Because from the first words that we shared, I knew that you were the person. And that made me fall harder for you. I knew that I could never have you, but I continued to torture myself with fantasies of us together. I never told you. And now, I am here, I'm in front of you. I am showing you all my scars, and my entire soul, and all that you will do is leave. And I can't watch you do that."
> 
> "I am not leaving. I would never leave. It was you."  
> "Have you ever missed someone so much that strangers in the street start to resemble them?"  
> "You are everywhere. I try to hide myself in my thoughts but you are still there. I can't run away. It is probable that you don't know this, Englishman, but the French are glad to die for love. Death, it will come, and it will have my eyes, but inside of them, Death will find you."  
> "Heaven knows that a sinner needs a saint."
> 
> "You are just a bag of bones, a heart that beats, and bright eyes. How can you ruin me so badly?"  
> "What do you want to hear?"  
> "I have dreamt of this moment since that night, and still I don't know. I want you to tell me that you love me, that it's not over, that I am the one for you. But I finally understand that that's not the case."
> 
> "Goodbye, Angel."


	7. je ne compte meme plus les diables

Grantaire becomes the lonely boy sitting in a café, with ink stained up to his knuckles. He becomes the boy who falls into beds and laughs without knowing why. He becomes the boy who fights on street corners, and runs in the moonlight until his feet ache and his legs give way. He becomes the boy in the back of his philosophy class who inhales chaos and exhales despair. He becomes the boy who plays the piano in cigarette-haze filled bars, swallowing pills and wine and never dying. He becomes the boy who delivers the newspaper, the boy who stands behind him in the shop, the boy who brushes past him in the street. He is everywhere, and nowhere, and Enjolras is distraught.

He thinks of the echoes the gods left behind, the language of the lost, and how devastating it is that he somehow learnt to speak it, of the stars, and how ironic it is that the most beautiful things we have are already dead. He thinks of everything and nothing in the span of a single moment. He thinks of himself, and he thinks of Grantaire.

 

“Do you think,” Enjolras asks as he flips his pencil over in his fingers, “that he still remembers me?”

Marius looks up from his textbook, and tilts his head to the right, “Enj-”

“I know, I know. But…”

He sighs, and rests his chin in his hands, “I think he does.”

“But it’s been so long.”

“He loved you,” Marius points out, “just as you loved him.”

Enjolras smiles, and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He puts one arm over his eyes, “such a long time ago.” He muses, “we really loved each other, didn’t we?”

“Yes, you did. I didn’t know you still thought about him.”

“I do,” Enjolras admits, “It comes in waves. I miss him always, but the emptiness isn’t something I notice anymore. It is a part of me.”

“I should assume he is the same. I’ve never seen a love like it.”

“Really?” He laughs, drawing one leg up to bend.

Marius nods, smiling back at him, “you would have gone to Hell for him, but he would have stayed to burn with you.”

 

That night, Enjolras cannot sleep. Marius’ words resound in his mind, and no matter how much he tosses and turns, he can’t ignore them. He thinks of the time he saw Grantaire, fleetingly, in Paris.

_His mother had relented, at last, and allowed him into the city with his friends, they were going to show him the museums. He had been in one, an art gallery that hadn’t really interested him, when he heard a familiar voice._

_“_ _Ici, c’est ma peinture préférée.”_

_He had turned, his heart heavy in his chest, and saw the back of Grantaire, and another boy. They were huddled together, studying a painting intently. Enjolras said nothing. It was clear that Grantaire had moved on._

He shakes the thought out of his head, that was over six months ago. University had started in September, and Enjolras had met so many new people, new faces, new names.

And yet, when he lay in bed in the dark, the only face, the only name he could remember was Grantaire’s. There’s a part of his heart that still hurts, the piece Grantaire took when he left. There’s a dull ache, the part that wishes he would have stayed. He can’t forget the night when he broke his own heart, and broke Grantaire’s, too. He doesn’t think he will ever fully get over it. He wonders if somewhere, maybe, he is lying in bed thinking the same. Something stirs within him, an energy that he assumed he had lost months ago, and he can’t get the image of Grantaire out of his head. Scruffy, hair tangled and crunchy with dry paint, wrapped in a tattered, threadbare blanket, waiting, and waiting, and waiting, for him.

Before he can think about what he is doing, he is standing, tugging on some dirty trousers and a coat. He yanks on his boots, worn now from his daily walk to classes, and is out the door. It takes him to get to the end of his garden path before the cold hits him. Before the thought of _should I do this?_ takes over. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the steel gate, hissing as the icy metal clung to his skin.

 

The streets of Paris, he discovers, are quite beautiful in January. His boots sink into the mulchy snow and he allows himself to skid on the ice. He watches his breath float above him in the air, reassuring him that _yes, you are alive, yes, the hole in your chest hasn’t killed you._ He tries not to imagine Grantaire’s reaction, instead focussing on his surroundings. Unfortunately, you can only travel for so long until you arrive at your destination, as Enjolras quickly finds out when he reaches Rue de Jouet-Palmasse. He had made Courfeyrac bring him here a few times, when he was trying to pull himself out of his misery, and it had given him the closure he thought he needed. Staring up at Grantaire’s house, he realises that he had been wrong. His heart hammers against his sternum and he has to steady himself on the doorframe. He knocks twice, three times, on the wooden door. He tries not to listen for footsteps.

 

The door swings open to reveal a Grantaire’s mother, covered in a shawl. She squints at Enjolras in the light of her handlamp, and he clears his throat.

“Désolé, madame, je sais qu’il est tard. Mais.. Je voudrais savoir si je peux parler avec votre fils ?”

She takes one step backwards, and motions to close the door.

“Madame!” He pleads, “c’est très important. S’il vous plaît. Please.”

“Attendez.” She tells him, opening the door a little wider, “et venez, vite.”

 

His house is exactly how Enjolras imagined it would be. Paintings hang on every wall, he has a piano with scrawled music sheets littering the floor, the furniture is covered in scratches and carvings. On the doorframe leading to the kitchen, Enjolras catches sight of dozens of etched lines, and upon closer inspection, he finds out that Grantaire didn’t have a growth spurt until he was fourteen. He smiles to himself, and sits at the dining room table, drumming his fingers lightly on the wood in nervousness.

“What are you doing here?”

He jumps slightly, knocking his knee against the table leg.

“I—I’m here because I need to talk to you.”

Grantaire looks tired, his nightshirt exposing the ghosts of his collarbones, and Enjolras swallows hard.

“It is the night.”

“Yes. I know, I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

Grantaire scoffs and rolls his eyes, “ah, so because the Englishman couldn’t sleep, nobody else can.”

“No,” he protests, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He says nothing, but stares back at Enjolras’ face, as though he was trying to memorise it.

“Come,” he eventually mutters, “if we talk here, Isabelle will wake up.”

Enjolras follows him up the creaking stairs, and whispers, “who is Isabelle?”

Over his shoulder, Grantaire replies “ma sœur.”

He doesn’t know why, but he is relieved.

 

Grantaire sits heavily on his bed, and then pats the space next to him. “Sit. Talk.” Enjolras nods, and takes off his coat, now sodden with snow. He perches on the edge of the mattress, and attempts to stabilise his breathing. He hopes Grantaire doesn’t notice. (He does, of course, but says nothing.)

“I saw you. A few months ago. You looked the same, and you were happy. You were with a boy, and he seemed happy, too.”

“Enj-”

“Please,” He says quietly, twisting his fingers, and Grantaire is silent, “I know we never had a proper goodbye, but I think that it’s okay. I couldn’t have said goodbye to you, not forever. All I want to know is that you’re better, that you got everything you wanted,” he draws a shuddering breath, “that you’re happy.”

Grantaire doesn’t speak, and the silence is painfully loud, so Enjolras continues.

“I respect that you found someone new. I do, I promise. I am not here to make a move on you, to beg for you to come back. I have begged enough. I have prayed to a god that I don’t believe in, for a love that I did. But I know not that it is gone. God is not real, and neither are we, not anymore.”

“He was constructing a god out of my body.” Grantaire interrupts, “and I did not stop him. Perhaps I should have. It made a ghost of both of us. But he needed an altar and I was not there to be brave.”

Enjolras hates this, but can’t stop himself, “what was he like?”

“He said my name the way you used to kiss me, soft, and delicate. It reminded me of us, you know, and how all the soft things in the world died alongside us. I could taste blood in my mouth when I said his, and I realised it was yours. He is gone now, just like the starlight and the sunshine and the flowers and the leaves. Everything is dark.”

“You and I both know that the dark doesn’t make the bruises disappear,” Enjolras murmurs, “it just makes them harder to see.”

“Julien.” Grantaire says, with a voice as mournful as Enjolras’ heart, “you broke me, and I would still choose you. Through all the screaming, the sleepless nights, the disgusted looks, I would still choose you. Your hands could be covered in blood from picking up the shards of my love for you and I would still choose you.”

“Summer was a different time. I was younger then, I had nothing to spend but time on you.”

“I know. Things are different now, and I know that one day I will be fine, but sometimes there’s a pain in my chest and I can’t stop thinking about your laugh.”

Enjolras smiles, and rolls his head onto his left shoulder, sensing he should change the subject, "your English is really good now."

This makes Grantaire laugh, something that Enjolras missed dearly, "Thank you. I had to take a class. I wanted to prove.. to your father. I'm not racaille, um, scum."

Enjolras looks up at him through his eyelashes, remembering that night, and Grantaire swears he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever known. “tell me, how did you stop crying? I am yet to conquer that hurdle.”

“Well,” Grantaire leans back on his elbows, “one night, I just stopped crying because I had nothing left to cry out. I lit a cigarette and I unscrewed the lid of a bottle, and I destroyed myself from the inside out. My skin burns, my eyes ache, my head pounds, but I don’t cry anymore.”

They both nod at this, and Enjolras blurts, “I miss you. I miss you at night and in the morning, and at university and every time in between. The truth is – and Marius would kill me for this – but everything reminds me of you.”

He reaches across the sheets and touches Grantaire’s hand lightly, “The life I’ve had could make a good man bad.” Grantaire tells him, turning his wrist so their fingers lock together, “I am nothing special; a poor man with ordinary thoughts. There are no history books that will be written about me, and when I am dead, I will quickly be forgotten. But I have loved you with all my heart, and I hoped that that would be enough for you.”

Enjolras’ voice cracks as he feels tear well up in his eyes, “it was. It is. I—”

He sees a tear roll down Grantaire’s cheek and screws his eyes shut, “I love you.”

 

“Leave. Let go of my hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been really long I know I'm sorry I have loads of uni work to do lol I hate my life 
> 
> "Here is my favourite painting"  
> "Sorry, Madam, I know that it's late. I wondered if I could talk to your son?"  
> "Madam, it's very important. Please."  
> "Wait, and come in, quickly."  
> "my sister"


	8. le fin

Enjolras watches him, his mouth slightly agape. He’s not angry, not in the way he had expected, and yet he is at the same time. Behind Grantaire’s eyes, there is a hollow sadness, an unfillable void that he tried desperately to fill with any emotion he could muster – here, it was anger.

Enjolras is a destroyer. He likes to scream, and break things. He struggles to find a voice of reason; will attack verbally and physically depending on how angry he is. He knows where to hit to hurt, something Grantaire knew all too well. Grantaire is cold, won’t scream unless he’s pushed. Mostly reverts to a calculated calm, his voice will change and become hard, and distant. They were so different, Enjolras thinks, how could they ever expect to work?

“I said, get out.”

There are a few things he should know by now, Enjolras muses to himself, Grantaire a blur in front of him.

He had felt an inexplicable emptiness in his chest, exactly where his heart was. It made it feel as though he was barely able to breathe. It was so agonisingly painful yet so numbing all at once; he had wanted to sob and writhe for hours on end while his whole body wrenched around itself. At some point, he ran out of tears. He stared into nothingness, felt like his life had become completely void of all meaning. That was until he reminded himself of something devastatingly hurtful and the crying began again. That was his life for a while.

The thought of food made him want to vomit. There came a time when he forced it into his mouth. He didn’t expect it to hurt. It tore up his stomach, and made him gag. He kept it down though, because he had to. Every time after that, it got a little bit easier.

Mornings had been his worst enemy. Some nights, he had dreams that none of it happened, and life was the way it was before. Those dreams romanticised their relationship, and filled him with happiness. He would then wake up, and reality hit him like a cannonball to the chest. He had felt the weight of loss all over again, all at once. For a split second, every single dawn, he forgot that everything had fallen apart. But that second was over too fast, and he realised once again that nothing would ever be the same. That feeling crushed the last remnants of his soul.

Everything reminded him of Grantaire, and the times they were happy, and he forgot the bad times. He would pass by a spot in the garden, and instead of thinking of the four separate occasions where they fought there, he would think of when they had their first kiss. Sometimes it hurt like hell, and sometimes he got the warm feeling back, just for a minute.

It felt so much worse, and then it felt a little bit better, and then he felt worse for allowing himself to feel better about it, because that meant he was giving up too, and if there’s one thing he didn’t do, it was give up. But he reminded himself that its for the best, with stupid mantras his mother parroted to him every day. Sometimes they helped, sometimes they annoyed him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but decides quickly against it.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire urges, eyes heavy with exhaustion, “get out.”

“I cannot go home in this weather,” Enjolras said simply, motioning to the snow outside, “I would if I could. But I can’t - it’s not safe.”

Grantaire groans, and forces his eyes open a bit wider. Enjolras figures he probably isn’t sleeping much, either.

“You leave tomorrow, when the snow is gone.” He resolves, sighing loudly afterwards. Enjolras offers a smile. It is rejected.

“We have to sleep here.” He continues, “In my bed, there’s nowhere else.”

If Enjolras turns as pale as he believes, Grantaire doesn’t mention it. Perhaps he doesn’t notice.

He tugs back the covers, and fidgets under the blanket. Enjolras turns as he shrugs off his shirt, feeling suddenly small. When he is undressed, he crawls in beside him.

Their breaths are steady, mingling together in the cold air. As Enjolras closes his eyes, he can’t tell if it’s Grantaire’s heart thumping or his own.

“Grantaire,” he whispers eventually, not really waiting for a response, “is this goodbye?”

By his shoulder, Grantaire emits an odd noise, and turns to lie on his side. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” he swallows, nervous, “if it is, I want you to know that without you, I never would have grown. You were like family to me, in a way that is distinct from clear ancestry. I hope this is not the end, but if it is, then I wish you well.”

Silence falls once more, save for the now laboured breathing coming from Grantaire. Enjolras held his, wishing for a reply.

“I’m sorry that our last day together was not a good one.” Grantaire says quietly, and it is clear. It is goodbye.

Enjolras closes his eyes at last, “goodnight, Grantaire.”

 

Grantaire lay awake, eyes boring holes in the ceiling above him. The rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest allowed him to count the time. Twenty-six minutes. He rolls over, props himself up with a fist against his temple. His gaze sweeps over Enjolras, all blond curls and pink lips.

“Je suis désolé pour toutes les choses que je n’ai jamais dit, toutes les choses que tu n’as jamais entendu. Je souhaite que je t’aie dit que tu m’as fait heureux, que tu m’as fait une meilleure personne. Que je t’aimerais jusqu’au jour où que je mourrai. J’aurais signifié chaque mot.”

Enjolras stirs at the interruption, despite its low volume. Grantaire waits, with baited breath. When he doesn’t wake, he exhales slowly.

“Courageux et invincible, conquérant des terres et de cœurs, et de l’espace inimaginable entre atomes. Toi, avec le fil de tes coutures de division sur le potentiel de que tu maintenais à l’intérieur. Tu défies de nous tous. Tu défies les étiquettes qu’ils veulent que t’aies.”

He blinks away tears, “Garder le feu des étoiles chaud dans ta poitrine. Brûler plus brillant qu’ils ont des mots pour décrire.”

In his sleep, Enjolras grumbles, and slings his arm absentmindedly over Grantaire’s ribs. His fingers hit his sternum, and he almost flinches at the memory of contact. They had slept like this before, long ago. Grantaire felt guilt, and nostalgia overwhelm him at the same time. He decides not to fight against it, and instead, leans down into Enjolras’ touch, lets the warmth wash over him like a tide. He stares at the side of Enjolras’ jaw until sleep takes over.

 

When Enjolras wakes up, Grantaire is long gone. His clothes are folded neatly on the bed, there is no note. He hadn’t expected one, knew that Grantaire had said everything he wanted to say. He lazily gets dressed, and pulls on his boots. They are still slightly damp with last night’s snow, and he grimaces at the discomfort. Standing, his feet squelch against the sole, and he winces as the cold soaks into his sock. He thinks of how he and Grantaire are like the socks that he sometimes watches his servants wash; tumbling apart, and together, and apart, and together on the wash board. They were only convinced they were warm because their entire world was rolling faster than they could keep up with. On nights when he had fallen asleep crying, wishing he could watch the lights dim on Grantaire’s face, and dig his fingers into his back and tell each other they’d be okay, on nights like those he could convince himself that being with Grantaire was all he needed. But it’s not.

There is such a thing as the right people, in the wrong time and place. They learn this the hard way, but they do learn. When Enjolras leaves Grantaire’s house, he does not look back. He feels the lock click as he closes the door, and he walks as steadily as he can down the road, and crosses into the early morning fog. He does not see Grantaire walking home from the bakery with fresh bread for their breakfast. He does not see Grantaire’s face crumple. He does not see him cry.

 

He does see Grantaire again. Once more, bittersweet and brief. Enjolras is with his friends, Les Amis, and they’re laughing in the Place de Paris-Centre. They have a meeting with an important officer, who wants to oversee some of their plans for revolutionary reforms. Months of work, finally paying off. As he crosses the square, he spots a familiar head of untameable dark hair. His heart gives a weak murmur, but his feet refuse to yield, carrying him further forward. Grantaire turns at the noise of the boys bustling past, and catches Enjolras’ eye. His mouth twitches into a small smile, and his hand raises hesitantly in greeting. Enjolras does the same, notes, plans and propositions all balanced in the crook of his elbow. As quickly as it starts, it is over. Somebody pushes past Enjolras, breaking the eye contact, and when he looks back, Grantaire is talking to the person he is sat with. He is pretty, Enjolras notes. He hopes that he makes Grantaire happy. The way their hands are clasped, he thinks that he probably does. Enjolras smiles to himself, as the door is opened for him.

He doesn’t know why they tried to make it work, he doesn’t know why they ran in such relentless circles, and he doesn’t know why they couldn’t fix their problems.

 

But what he does know, what he is taken aback by, is that they finally have closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO  
> that's the end chaps. not everything is sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes, that's okay.
> 
> "I'm sorry for all the things I never said, all the things you never heard. I wish that I told you that you made me happy, that you made me a better person. That I would love you until the day I die. I would have meant everyday."  
> "Fearless and undefeatable, conqueror of lands and of hearts, and of the unimaginable space between atoms. You, with the thread of your seams splitting under the potential that you hold inside. You defy all of us. You defy the labels that they want to give you. Keep the fire of the stars hot in your chest. Burn brighter than they have words to describe."


End file.
